


Little Green Soldiers

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Child Neglect, Color Blindness, Deaf, Depression, Gen, Hurt Adam Milligan, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, POV Adam Milligan, POV Dean Winchester, POV Multiple, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Witch Curses, Young Adam Milligan, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, middle child sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Having a little brother, Sam has learned, is the most terrifying thing there is. He wonders how Dean copes with having two of them.





	1. 1995

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I've been working on for a looong time (since last Autumn) and I'm happy I've finally gotten around to posting.
> 
> This is a look into the Winchesters' childhood if they'd grown up with another sibling, Adam. There will be 7 chapters (1995-2001) and most of it has already been written so hopefully that means frequent updates.

There was a time when Adam was The Kid and not Little Brother. Dad came home one evening after two weeks away and for once he didn't have a black eye or blood spattered down his front, he had a little boy clinging onto his arm with big, watery eyes staring at Sam and Dean like they might pounce on him. John didn't ease them into it, he'd just shut the door behind him and said, "Boys, this is Adam, your brother. He's going to be staying with us from now on."

Dad had taken the time to get Adam dressed in a set of Sam's pyjamas – a set that was way too big, the waist band had to be rolled a few times just so the legs weren't hanging off his feet like flippers – and tucked him into one of the two motel beds, then he'd hopped into the shower. Questions wouldn't be answered until the next day, and even then neither Sam nor Dean got the whole story.

Two years later, and now Adam is more a Winchester than a Milligan. Sam sits on the bed with his homework spread out across the sheets and watches Adam's tiny six-year-old fingers eagerly pass gun parts over to Dean. They work like a well-oiled machine. Even with a decade between them they look more alike than Sam and Dean ever did. They have the same dark, sandy hair, freckled cheeks and green eyes. Neither of them got those from Dad. Sam imagines Adam's mother as beautiful and blonde, a lot like the woman smiling in the photos in Dad's journal with a baby Sam on her lap. The photos he's not supposed to look at.

On the other side of the room, Adam excitedly asks Dean, "Can I watch you shoot targets?"

Dean hesitates a moment, eyes focused on where his nimble fingers slot together the weapon with expert ease. "Only if you listen to everything I tell you," he finally says, evoking a gap-toothed grin from Adam. "You have to know this thing isn't a toy."

Sam sees the fondness in Dean's eyes as he looks down at Adam, and the adoration Adam reserves for Dean. He can't help but be jealous of them both. He turns his attention back to his homework, trying to blend into the room. No one's noticed him much yet and he's hoping to keep it that way. If he's quiet enough, they might mistake him for a bed pillow. However, Sam's always been unlucky.

"You coming?" Dean asks.

Sam peers upwards without lifting his head, face still ducked under his hair. "I'm busy," he answers.

"What are you doing?" Dean says, and he's across the room in two strides, leaning close and poking at Sam's textbooks. "History?" he scoffs. "God, you're a nerd."

"It's homework."

"So? Skip it. Not like we'll be in town much longer, anyway."

"It's important," Sam insists, cheeks burning. Moving from school to school each month drags his grades down, and he's not getting another D. He  _won't_.

"Your aim's been off for weeks. If you don't fix that, you're dead," Dean says seriously. Across the room, Adam watches them both with wide eyes. Then, leaning close, Dean says the one thing he knows Sam can't ignore. "You need to set a good example for Adam," he whispers.

Sam's homework ends up half-finished and abandoned at the bottom of his backpack. They head out a mile from the motel where an old, abandoned warehouse stands. It's a trek they've made several times since arriving in town. A quiet, secluded place they can call their own. Their initials are even scratched in tiny letters on the rusted door.

D.W.

S.W.

A.W.M

Adam had insisted. He probably caught sight of Sam and Dean's initials carved into the Impala and decided he wanted in on it, too.

Dean efficiently sets up empty beer cans across the room, one on a rotted wood shelf, another on an old work bench. He hands the gun to Sam.

"Too far to the right," he says when Sam misses the target.

Sam clips the edge of the next one, but doesn't knock it over. Wordlessly, Dean takes the gun out of his hands. He aims, natural as if it's an extension of his arm, then takes a breath, both eyes open and hard with focus, and fires.  _Bang, bang, bang._ Each can is pierced right through the middle, the metal edges curled inwards around the sharp, rounded wound. They each fall to the dusty concrete with a tinny  _thud_.

"That's how it's done," Dean says. The smile on his face is almost blinding and Adam is standing behind him with his mouth hanging open.

"Can I try?" he asks.

Right away, Sam says, "No."

No one listens to Sam, no one  _ever_ listens to Sam. Dean flicks on the safety and empties the clip. Sam's taken back to being nine years old, shivering and sweating after a nightmare as Dad hands over a gun that's too heavy for his tiny hands, but this time he's watching his sixteen-year-old brother show his six-year-old brother how to hold a weapon.

" _Dean_ ," Sam hisses. "I think he's too young for this."

Dean shrugs. "I wasn't that much older when Dad taught me. He needs to learn to protect himself."

"He's  _six_."

"I'm not a baby!" Adam yells, but the whine in his voice contradicts his point.

The thing is, Dean and Adam knew the truth about what's out there from the start. Both of them were old enough to remember what happened to their mothers, Adam even saw the monster with his own eyes. He wakes up most nights crying, and Sam holds him close and whispers softly to him until he falls back to sleep.

Dean and Adam both knew long before Sam ever figured it out, they both still feel the loss, they both grieve. Sam doesn't even know what his mom's voice sounded like. He doesn't know what her favourite movie was, or her favourite food, or what she might have had in common with him. Dean and Dad never talk about her, and they get mad if Sam brings her up, and all that's left of her is a stranger in a photograph that he's not allowed to look at.

He looks at Adam now, barely taller than the work benches lined up across the rusted warehouse, a gun in his hand, aimed at the distance. He has a serious look on his face, bobbing the gun with each imitated, "Bang!"

Sam thinks of the little green army men wedged into the ashtray in their car. Trapped.

* * *

When Adam starts his third kindergarten class of the year, his teacher sits him down separate from all the other kids and points to a piece of card.

"Can you tell me what colour this is, Adam?" she asks.

He squints at it. The colour of fire trucks and the graze on his elbow, but it also reminds him of oranges or leaves on a tree.

"Red?" he guesses, fiddling the edges of the paper between his fingers.

Miss Averton's lips pinch and Adam's heart dips as he waits for her scribble the same frowny face he's been getting on his work lately. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand on his arm, giving him a gentle pat. She sends him back into the classroom, just in time for the recess bell. As he's hurtling around the yard with Tom and Mike, Adam has mostly forgotten about the whole thing, until his Dad turns up at the end of school.

Miss Averton talks to Dad, then Dad talks to an eye doctor, then the eye doctor talks to Adam. They find the right words to describe him, like a stamp over his chest, or the letters under the pictures in his books. A new name. The words are too long for Adam to remember, and he isn't that great at reading yet.

"Colour vision deficiency," Sam tells him. He's twelve and already smarter than most grown-ups they know.

"Colour blind," Dean corrects. Dean's smart, too, but he's way quieter about it than Sam is. He doesn't know as many long and complicated words or remember as many things from school text books, but he knows the inside of the Impala's engine like the back of his hand. He could scrape up and assemble a monster trap out of the trash in the car's footwell, if he wanted.

"Just means you might put on socks that don't match without realising," Dean says.

Sam gives him that look that only Sam can perfect. The one that says  _you're an idiot_  better than any words could. "It's a serious thing, Dean," he says. "This means he can't become a pilot or an electrician or a train driver or a painter – "

Dean snorts and his soda nearly comes out of his nose. He dries his face with Sam's unused napkin, then swipes a couple of uneaten fries from his plate. Not that Sam complains, he never eats more than half a plateful of food these days.

"Who'd want to be a painter?" Dean laughs. "Maybe a pilot or a train driver, but a  _painter_?" He wipes his watering eyes, shaking his head to himself, no doubt picturing Adam in a beret with a brush in his hand. "Besides, he's gonna be the toughest monster hunter there ever was, right?"

Dean nudges Adam and gives him a wink. Adam thinks on that for a moment. He thinks of himself riding shotgun in the Impala, holding a gun that actually has the bullets in it, wearing a leather jacket just like Dean's.

Like Indiana Jones or Han Solo.

A real hero, like the ones in the movies.


	2. 1996

Dean drops out of school for good when he's seventeen. Sam bitches about it, which is to be expected. What's surprising is the disappointed look on Adam's face when he hears the news.

"Does that mean you'll be going away with Dad more?" he asks.

"Only for a few days," Dean promises. "I'll be back."

Across the room, Sam is lounging against the headboard with a library book on his lap. He's giving Dean a look –  _the_ look – the one that says  _I see right through your bullshit_. Dean knows he can't promise he'll be back. Brushing shoulders with death is part of the job, he knows that, but he can't look into Adam's hopeful eyes and tell him he might come back in several pieces.

He reaches down and ruffles the kid's hair. "Sammy's gonna take care of you, don't worry."

Adam scowls at the floor and mutters, "I don't want Sam, I want you."

Sam's off the bed and across the room so fast that Dean only sees the bathroom door slam shut behind him. The shower begins the run on the other side of the wall, he can hear nothing but the thundering rain of it against the tub. Dean remembers it all too well, back when he was a few years younger and standing in Sam's shoes. He'd be heating up Spaghetti-Os and all he'd get from Sam was, "When's Dad coming back? I want Dad!"

Dean sighs and nudges Adam over to where the ancient TV set sits in the corner of the room, then he heads over to the locked bathroom door and knocks gently.

"Sammy?"

As expected, he gets no answer.

He sighs deeply and speaks against the peeling wood door. "I'll check in with you guys when we get there, okay?" He glances back at Adam, who's now fully engrossed in the flickering black and white cartoon playing on TV. "Sammy, he didn't mean it. He's just a kid. Kids say dumb things they don't really mean."

He receives nothing but silence. "Alright," he relents. "I've gotta go now. Bye, Sam – "

The door swings open and suddenly Dean has his little brother wrapped around his middle, face buried into his chest. Dean pats his back, then peels him off to meet a pair of red-rimmed eyes.

"Just come back, okay?" Sam mutters, ducking his head.

Dean grins, trying to push down the cold fear that's had a grip on him since Dad decided he was coming hunting. "You know I will."

* * *

They've been alone together for a full week and Sam still hasn't heard a word from Dean or Dad. This isn't new, Sam spent a lot of time alone before Adam showed up in their lives, but things are different now that he's here. Everything changed when Dad brought Adam home.

Having a little brother, Sam has learned, is the most terrifying thing there is. He wonders how Dean copes with having two of them.

Each morning, Sam makes Adam's breakfast – Lucky Charms that are quickly running out – and packs his lunch – peanut butter spread thinly over one slice of bread and folded in half, an apple he slipped into his pocket at the supermarket – and then he walks him to the elementary school.

Adam won't hold Sam's hand when they cross the road, folds his arms over his chest in defiance. He spends the entire journey to school ignoring Sam. When they get to the gate where all the parents are hugging their sons and daughters goodbye for the day, Adam trudges inside without even a wave in Sam's direction.

Adam misses Dean and Dad, clearly would rather have them here than Sam. Sam isn't fun like Dean, he isn't strong like Dad, and he doubts he'll ever be as big as either of them.

"I'll pick you up at 3.30," Sam calls after him, but Adam has already disappeared into the wave of eight-year-olds, laughing and joking around with a small group of friends. That's one thing about Adam that always amazes Sam; he can integrate himself into established social groups in less than five minutes, like he was there the whole time. Dean was never much good at making friends at school, but he always had a girl on his arm in each town they stopped at.

Sam has never really had any friends. He definitely hasn't had a girlfriend. He only has himself, and the characters within the pages of his favourite books to keep him company. Sometimes they feel more real than reality.

At school, he gets through the day relatively quietly, focusing on work more than anything else, he enjoys putting all his focus and energy into something that doesn't result in death. He doesn't bother trying to talk to the other kids, even eating lunch in the library to catch up on reading for English class.

The final bell rings at 3.15 and Sam dashes straight for the guidance councillor's office to ask about college. Never too early to look into it, she says with a shrug.

He's five minutes later than he expected to be and he has to run all the way to the elementary school, almost six blocks away. The school yard is empty, all the kids are at home by now, the gate is even closed. Sitting on the sidewalk outside, hunched under his coat hood, is Adam.

"I came as fast as I could," Sam says, stopping to catch his breath.

He doesn't get a reply. His little brother doesn't even move.

"Adam?" Sam asks, crouching down, worry niggling at him.

"You promised," Adam says, voice so quiet Sam almost misses it. "You said you'd be here at 3.30."

"I know," says Sam. "I got a little held up."

Adam finally lifts his head. Sam's met with a purpling eye and a bloody nose that's been clumsily smeared across his cheek. Adam's lip wobbles and his eyes well up with sudden tears.

Sam feels his cheeks burn with fresh anger. "Who did this?" he asks. "Did another kid do this to you?"

He reaches out, fingertips ready to brush away flakes of drying blood, but Adam knocks his hand back.

"I just wanna go home," he mutters. But they don't have a home, they just have a motel room and only a few days' worth of food left.

Wordlessly, Adam takes Sam's hand and doesn't let go until they get back to the motel.

He sits Adam down on the edge of the bathtub and soaks a towel with cool water. Adam winces when the wet fabric touches his swelling eye. He won't talk to Sam, won't answer any of his questions. Once Sam has cleaned him up, all Adam has to say, low and wounded, is, "I wish Dean was here."

Hot-faced, Sam breathes in and counts to three, then, without another word, he sets a pan to boil on the kitchenette's stove for dinner.

* * *

Dean is dying, he's sure of it. This is what dying feels like, white hot in your middle and chillingly numb everywhere else. He can feel the Impala speeding beneath him, so fast it almost bounces on the road. He can feel Dad's hand on his leg, gripping tight enough that it should hurt, but he's hurting too much elsewhere to notice.

"Keep your eyes  _open_ ," Dad orders, and Dean's usually pretty good with orders but this one is particularly difficult. He lets them close, just for a second, but it feels like less than that as Dad shakes him roughly awake. They're parked outside the motel, he can see the light of their room flick on.

Dad grabs his arms and hauls him up, and the tear he feels across his middle is so agonising that everything goes white for a second and there's a ringing in his ears, and it's not until he can see again that he realises the ringing is his own screaming.

Dad clamps a hand over his mouth and drags him out the car towards the room. The door opens for them and Sam is standing on the other side, wide-eyed, the first aid kit tucked under his arm.

Dad gently eases Dean onto the empty bed, the one with the sheets still rumpled from where Sam had just been curled up in them only minutes earlier. Miraculously, Adam's still fast asleep in the other bed.

Dad's talking, but not to Dean, every muffled noise he makes is followed by Sam echoing, "yes, sir."

Everything sounds strange, like it's coming from the end of a tunnel, or trapped under a rainstorm.

"You need to focus on me, Dean," Dad says, and he's suddenly right in Dean's face, hands on either side of his face. Dean nods, because it seems like the answer his dad wants, but he's struggling to remember what was asked of him.

"He needs a hospital, Dad," Sam says, clear as a bell.

"We can't," Dad snaps back. "Pass me the whiskey."

He takes a sip himself, then holds it to Dean's lips. The sharp taste shocks him enough to sputter, but Dean's been drinking whiskey long before he should have and another gulp has it sliding down smoother than it ought to. He manages to clamp his screams between his clenched teeth when Dad drizzles the alcohol over the wound.

"It's not so bad," Dad says. "A little blood loss, but it could have been a lot worse. Just a little shock, isn't that right, ace?"

Finally, Adam stirs on the other bed, mumbling sleepily. Dean wants to twist away, wants to hide it all from him, because Adam's too little to see something like this. But, then again, Adam's seen worse at a much younger age.

"What happened to you your eye?" Dad asks Adam. Then, sterner, to Sam, "What happened to his eye?"

"It's nothing," Adam says, just as Sam says, "I'm sorry."

"You were supposed to be looking after him, Sam. We were only gone for a week. Jesus."

Dean's tempted to jump in to defend Sam's case. He doubts Sam put the black eye there himself, but he knows how it feels to be responsible when your little brother's hurting. Dad pierces the skin to make the first stitch and Dean forgets Adam's black eye and Sam's guilty face, losing himself to the pain.

* * *

Sam can't keep his hands from shaking. It's been three hours since Dean and Dad came back, a little less than that since Sam helped Dad stitch Dean back together.

Adam has since fallen back to sleep, Dad left the motel room an hour ago and still hasn't come back yet. Sam sits in the hard wooden chair he pulled to Dean's bedside from the kitchenette. He hasn't moved an inch in three hours, he can't look away in case something happens. If he doesn't watch Dean's chest rise and fall, he's almost certain it will stop.

He needs to wash the blood off his trembling hands, he needs to sleep, but he can't.

Anxiety has a tight grip on him, and in the quiet of the room he can't get the voice out of his head that keeps pondering  _what if?_

What if Dean stops breathing? What if he gets an infection? What if Adam gets beaten up at school again? What if Dad never comes back from wherever he went?

Sam rubs at his watering eyes with his hands, only to realise he's now bloodied his face. Then, he can't catch his breath. It's what finally drives him away from his bedside vigil and into the bathroom. He turns on the taps and begins to scrub the red from his skin. There isn't enough soap in the bathroom, not enough in the world. He splashes his face and wipes suds against his skin. Soap gets in his eyes and it stings like hell, but he forces himself to watch the pink water run clear. He needs to know it's all gone.

His eyes are red when he looks in the mirror, there are dark circles under his eyes that have become seemingly permanent residents.

"This won't last forever," he tells his mirror-self. "You'll be eighteen in a few years, then you can go wherever you want."

His mirror-self doesn't seem to believe him. Sam doesn't know if he can stitch someone up again, he doesn't know if he can sit up waiting for Dean and Dad to come home again, he doesn't know if he can watch Adam follow in their footsteps any longer.

He rubs his hands and face dry with a towel and returns to Dean's bedside. Sam can't breathe until he's sure Dean is, too. He is, just passed the fuck out. He shifts slightly, face crinkling as he bothers his wound, and two bleary eyes peel open. It takes them a moment to find Sam.

"Sammy," Dean slurs, and his eyes fall shut again, tugged back down against his will. "You good?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam tells him. "I'm good."


	3. 1997

It's summer, and Adam is eight years old when Sam and Dean have their first major falling out. Some little no-name town in Texas holds grounds for battle. Although, there's no battling going on, Sam and Dean just refuse to talk to each other and use Adam as their messenger boy.

After a week of total silence, Adam has forgotten what the two of them are arguing about. He and Sam are lounging outside their ramshackle trailer one early morning. The sky is the clearest he's ever seen it and the air is still cool from the night before. In an hour or two, when the sun is higher in the sky, everyone will be sweating through their clothes.

It's quiet out in the countryside, there's nothing but the chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of Sam turning a page in his book.

"We could go swimming today," Adam says. They don't have swim shorts, but Adam's happy to stay in his boxers. Either that or Dean can steal something for them from the only clothes store in town.

Sam drops his book on his chest and stares out over the fields thoughtfully. There's a river nearby with clear, cool water, Adam can hear its trickle all the way from here and it makes his heart flutter with excitement.

"Yeah, that'd be cool," Sam agrees. He dog-ears his book and leaves it on the table of their plastic outdoor set, then shucks on his sneakers, stretching up tall with a yawn.

Adam jumps to his feet excitedly. He's going to find the water pistol he got out of a happy meal a few weeks earlier. "I'll tell Dean," he calls back to Sam.

"No, he is  _not_ invited," Sam bellows after him, but Adam is already inside the stuffy trailer where Dean is sprawled half-naked and fast asleep on one of the bunks. He nudges his shoulder until Dean jerks awake with a snort.

"We're going swimming," Adam says.

"As in you and Sam?" Dean asks. Adam nods, then Dean flops back into his pillow. "No thanks," he says.

Adam nudges him in the shoulder again, harder this time. Dean yelps and swats at him. "Brat," he mutters.

"You and Sam are the brats," Adam says, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's your problem anyway? Why are you guys fighting?"

" _He_ knows," Dean spits, like Sam's name is too bitter to say.

"Come on!" Adam begs, going into full whine-mode. He knows he can get Dean to do almost anything if he pleads hard enough. Sam, on the other hand, has never been as easy to persuade.

After a minute or so of yanking on Dean's arm and chattering in his ear, Dean relents.

"Fine!" he sighs, throwing his hands up. "I'll go swimming with you, but don't expect me to talk to Sam. It's not going to happen."

Adam rolls his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Now let's  _go!"_

Sam isn't where Adam left him once the two of them step out of the trailer, but after squinting at the wavering sunrise Adam spots him in the distance, trekking along to the river.

They follow, Adam zooming a little way ahead, eager to get into the water. He pulls his plastic water pistol from his pocket and pretends to shoot at the surrounding trees. Behind, Dean cackles with laughter and comes bounding up after him, grabbing him around the middle and swinging him up onto his shoulders.

Dean's almost six feet tall at eighteen, and Adam feels giddy so high up, throwing out his arms to pretend he's flying. Sam's already stripped down to his shorts at the riverside, and Adam catches a fleeting grin on his face at the sight of them both. He schools his expression when he and Dean lock eyes.

Adam is returned to the ground, and there's silence between them again.

If anyone has a right to be angry, Adam thinks it's him. Dean and Sam are ruining his summer with their moping.

The water is shallow and trickling sluggishly at this part of the river and they lay down a couple of towels on the dry grass beside it. Sam plonks himself down at the centre of the towels and resumes his reading, taking up all the space just to annoy Dean. It works, Dean throws the meanest glare in Sam's direction then pulls his shirt over his head and throws it in Sam's face.

Sam yanks it away and tosses it a meter or so behind him, returning his attention to his book. Adam is tired of watching them play  _who can get who to snap first?_ and wades into the river up to his knees. It's blessedly cool against his skin so he sits down until just his head and shoulders are dry. Filling his little plastic pistol with water, he occupies himself with shooting reeds and river-side rocks.

There's a giant wave of water that comes up from behind and soaks him. He jumps to his feet and blinks away the wetness to find Dean making an almighty ruckus, kicking up water in every direction. Sam gets hit worse than Adam does, water drenches his book and sticks his hair to his face.

"That's a library book!" Sam growls, shaking out the pages. From where he stands, Adam can see the inky words are already melting into one black smudge. Sam's expression turns thunderous as he glares at Dean. "You jerk!"

Dean shrugs. "It was an accident," he says.

"You did it on purpose!" Sam cries, hands flailing, the book abandoned beside him. He gets to his feet, mouth pressed into a thin line, seething. Adam looks at Dean, finds a mischievous grin on his face. He's enjoying this far too much, and Sam's taking the bait.

That's when the yelling starts. Dean is just messing with Sam at first, but then he falls for his own trick and ends up just as annoyed as Sam is. Adam sighs and turns away, wading a little further down the river. He pauses and squirts his water pistol, rustling a clump of grass with the spray. He sighs and kicks at the water. This isn't as fun as he hoped it would be. He's stuck on his own while Sam and Dean have a showdown. Their raised voices pierce the calm of the sunny summer morning.

"Little boy, are you lonely?"

Adam jolts at the unfamiliar voice, his toy pistol falling from his grip to wash away downstream. He turns around to find a woman sitting in the centre of the river a few meters away. She's drenched and pale, but she smiles kindly at him.

"My brothers are arguing," Adam tells her. Then, squinting at her, he asks, "What are you doing swimming in your clothes?"

She ignores him and says, "I can play with you if you like, sweet boy. Just come here."

"I – I don't think I should," Adam says, backing up a step. A shiver runs through his spine and he suddenly wants nothing more than to back with Sam and Dean and their yelling.

The woman glides forward, only her head above water like she's swimming, but it's too shallow to swim. The river begins to swell, rising past his knees and up his thighs to his hips. Adam runs, but the water slows him down and he begins to panic. He glances over his shoulder but the woman is gone.

Something grabs him and Adam screams. She's got him, she's going to drown him, he's sure of it.

But it's Sam's hands on him, not the hers. Sam isn't very tall for his age but he's remarkably strong as he hurls Adam over to the shoreline where he lands in a heap on the grass.

The river is full now and running rapidly, he can barely see its rocky bed beneath the foamy, bubbling surface. Worse, he can't see Sam.

"Sam!" Dean yells. He runs waist-deep and unsteady into the water, peering around in a panic.

Adam hopes Sam will pop up nearby and swim for shore, but he doesn't. He could have washed away, far out of their reach, pulled down deep by the lady in the water. Maybe Sam will be trapped in the river forever, too, trying to pull others in with him. Adam can't help it, he begins to cry. He's sopping wet and shivering on the grass, tears running freely down his cheeks. His whimpers turn to sobs when Dean dives under the surface.

They're both going to die and Adam will be alone. He'll have to go back to the trailer and tell Dad that two of his sons are dead and it's all his fault. If he hadn't wandered away…

Dean comes up for air with a heavy gulp, and there's something pressed close to his chest, all Adam can see is a dark mop of wet hair. Dean tries to swim for the shore but the current is strong. He's paddling as fast as he can but barely moving and inch. Adam jumps to his feet - still crying, he can't stop – and runs to a nearby tree. He snaps off a long branch from the bottom and runs back, holding it out to Dean.

Dean grabs hold of it with his free hand, shifting Sam higher with his other arm. With all his might, Adam pulls them back to solid ground.

Sam isn't moving. He flops down onto the grass when Dean loses his grip. He's soaking wet and pale. He looks a lot like the woman in the water did.

"Is he – " Adam begins, but his question goes unfinished as another sob comes bubbling upwards.

Dean leans down close to Sam's face, two of his fingers pressed to his neck. Then, he fingers run along Sam's scalp. They come away bloody when he feels behind his right ear.

"He's breathing," Dean says, and he sinks down into the grass, panting. Dean wipes under his eyes and Adam wonders if he's crying, too. But it's impossible, Dean  _never_ cries.

"Why isn't he waking up?" Adam asks, shifting from foot to foot, eager to get closer but too afraid at the same time.

"Hit his head," Dean says. He leans in close to Sam again and gently taps his cheek. "Come on. Rise and shine, sunshine."

Sam's brow furrows and he tilts his head away from Dean's insistent fingers. Dean breaks out into a grin.

"Nuh uh, buddy," he says. "You gotta open your eyes, okay?"

It takes a moment, and Sam is clearly trying, but eventually his eyelids part to mere slits and he glances wearily up at Dean.

He opens his mouth but a painful round of coughing comes up rather than words. He rolls onto his side and spits out some river water. When he finally manages to speak, his voice is so groggy and quiet that Adam almost misses what he says. "Wha'?" Cough. "What happened?"

"You had to be the damn hero, that's what happened," Dean says, nodding towards Adam. "Had to save the damsel in distress, didn't you?"

"I'm not a damsel in distress," Adam protests, sniffling, although he's not entirely sure what 'damsel' means.

"I remember... there was a ghost," Sam croaks. He winces when he tries to sit up. "My head…"

Dean pushes him to lie back down with gentle hands. Any anger he had for Sam earlier washed away in the river. "I'll get her later, okay?" Dean promises. "First, I gotta fix you up."

Adam is sent to retrieve their things: the towels, Sam sneakers and his soaked library book. He shovels his own shoes back onto his feet and pulls his t-shirt back on, despite still being so wet, then runs back to his brothers and carefully drapes a towel over a shivering Sam.

Dean helps Sam up onto his feet, but his legs tremble like a newborn colt's. A couple of steps result in him almost falling face-first into the ground, but Dean catches him and holds him upright. Sam's eyes are a little bleary and he tries to blink them clear.

It's still bright and sunny, the kind of day for barbeques or water fights, not a day for near-death experiences. Adam still feels fragile, and he feels wobbly on his feet as he follows Dean, with Sam on his back, as they trek back to their trailer.

Adam knows about monsters, they've existed in his life for as long as he can remember, but the lady in the river was the closest he's ever been to one since his mother died - and he doesn't remember that day very well. More frighteningly, it's the closest he's been to losing one of his siblings.

He can't be unprepared like that again.

As soon as they get back to the trailer Sam just wants to go to sleep, but Dean won't let him.

"Nope," Dean says, pulling him back into sitting position. Sam grumbles, but does as he's told.

Adam hovers closely over Dean's shoulder as he shines a penlight in Sam's eyes, and he watches his pupils expand. For whatever reason, this seems to please Dean. Adam is happy to play assistant as Dean orders him to get the medical box, which sits on top of the fridge. He watches, fascinated, as Dean mops up the trickle of blood behind Sam's ear. He takes a long time peering at the cut hidden in Sam's hair.

"Butterfly stitches?" Sam asks hopefully.

"Sorry, Sammy, I think you'll need a couple of real ones."

Adam hasn't had stitches before, and the worst injury he's ever had was a broken finger when he fell over in a playground a few states and several years ago. He wonders what his first war wound will be. Apparently, Sam was first allowed to go on a hunt when he was nine, that means Adam only has one year of waiting left before he can join in.

Sam hisses as Dean inserts the needle into his scalp. His fingers cling to the bedsheet so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Adam watches Dean intently, absorbing every push and pull of the needle in case he ever needs to stitch someone up one day. Sam's eyes are watery by the end of it, but he gives Adam a small smile.

"Are you okay?" Adam asks.

"I'll be fine," Sam says, which just means  _no_.

"I'm sorry," Adam has to say, because Sam nearly had his head bashed open by some crazy river ghost because of him.

Sam shakes his head, then immediately regrets the decision. He slowly lowers himself back to lie down on his bunk. "Not your fault, Adam."

Adam wants to protest. He wants to say that he should be a better fighter, he should carry a knife on him like Sam and Dean always do, he should have better aim, or know every word to an exorcism by heart. But his aim is poor and he only remembers e _xorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..._

Sam is mostly asleep before Adam can open his mouth. He gives Sam a quick hug because he's just so pleased he still has a Sam to hug, and Sam's still awake enough to give him a sleepy pat on the back and an incoherent mumble.

He heads outside just as Dean comes back, and when he asks his eldest brother for one thing, Dean just shrugs and hands it over with a quick, "Remember what I taught you?"

"Don't be an idiot," Adam recites, which earns him a nod of approval. Adam collects some empty beer bottles from the sink, then takes them outside to line up on a crumbling stone wall nearby.

With Dean's gun, he aims for the bottles, picturing the face of the woman in the water. Next time, he won't be unprepared. He won't be afraid.


	4. 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh... remember when I said 'frequent updates'? It's been a while, I know, but I promise I'm not abandoning this story. Life sometimes gets in the way, so does creative block. I hope to post more for this story soon, thanks for sticking with it. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

The air is thick with humidity, rain patters on the thin, metal roof. Dean can taste it on his tongue, the sharp tang of wet earth. The clouds swelled up and finally burst after a long drought, and they've been dealing with rain for the past couple of days. It falls non-stop in thick sheets.

On the porch, Dean is sprawled out on the wooden boards, kept dry by a roof cover that sounds a few minutes away from coming loose. The hinges groan, the house shakes softly in the wind. He can hear Adam inside, fussing over the television as he tries to turn the static screen to a coloured picture with a few smacks to the side. Dean doesn't hear Sam, but rather the turn of pages in his school text books.

"Dean!" Adam calls.

Dean keeps his eyes closed. There's a chance Adam might not notice him.

" _Dean!"_  Adam says again, a few fractions more irritated. Dean's shoulder is nudged.

He peels an eye open. "What?"

"TV won't work."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"You're good at fixing stuff," Adam points out.

"Not in this weather," Dean answers, flapping his hand vaguely. "Find something else to do."

"There's nothing else to do!"

With a sigh, Dean props himself up. It's been almost two weeks since Dad went off to do whatever it is he's doing,  _without_  Dean. Two weeks since Dean has been stuck with his little brothers.  _Annoying_ little brothers. Adam never shuts up, and Sam's presence in their ramshackle little house is gloomier than the grey clouds outside. A phase, Dad calls it, all teenagers go through it. Funny, Dean doesn't remember turning into the literal devil at that age.

"Adam," Dean groans, rubbing at his tired eyes. "Can you please just entertain yourself for a few minutes?"

"With what?"

Dean flops back onto the deck and closes his eyes. Adam nudges him a few more times, gives up, and stomps away to smack the TV again. He listens to the rain and thinks of braving the wet, hopping in the car, and driving the fuck away. Just for a little while, long enough to get the incessant whining out of his head. But Dad left him in charge, which means both little brothers, no matter how irritating, are completely Dean's responsibility. Make sure they're fed, get them to school, deal with nosy teachers, scare off bullies, entertain them, drive them from point A to point B.

Thing is, Dean is cool with it. Looking after Sam and Adam is what he does, he's never questioned that, it's something he's supposed to do. But he barely has five minutes to himself to even just lay down on the porch in the rain. Even when they're at school, he's working non-stop in the local supermarket.

"Dean," that's Sam this time. Dean blinks his eyes open and looks, up, up, up. Jesus, the kid's getting tall.

"What?"

"I need to go to the library."

"Okay. See you later, then."

Sam huffs and folds his arms. "I need you to give me a ride."

"Sam, it's a weekend. You don't need to go to the library."

"It's  _important_."

"Yeah, well, what I'm doing right now is important."

"You're not doing anything!" Sam sputters. He crouches down and flicks Dean in the ear. "Look, there's a book I really need for an essay that I  _have_ to get a good grade on."

Dean flicks Sam in the ear and Sam smacks his hand away. "Dude," Dean says. "School really isn't that important. Look at me, did anything I learn in high school help me be a badass hunter? No."

"Not everyone wants to be a hunter, Dean," Sam mutters, and leans against the door frame.

Dean sits up, frowning. "You don't want to be a hunter?"

"I didn't say that."

Except, he did. "What else are you gonna be?" Dean asks. "An accountant? You're gonna save people's finances?"

It makes sense, why Sam has been obsessing over school, why he does homework non-stop and spends more time reading than eating or sleeping. Dean bets if he were to look in Sam's bag, he'd find pamphlets about colleges and applications. The kid's only fifteen years old, though, he doesn't need to think about this stuff for another three years, if at all. But maybe he's just that desperate to get away.

The memory of Flagstaff raises its ugly head.

Sam only ever tries to run away, he's pretty much packing his bags right now.

"DEAN!" Adam yells from inside. "The TV was all fuzzy and now the screen is just black! It wasn't my fault, I swear!"

Dean gets to his feet, brushes past Sam and grabs his jacket from where it's draped over the back of the couch. Adam pauses in jabbing every button on the TV remote and frowns at him. "Are you going out?"

"Yup," Dean answers, back out onto the porch again. The rain hasn't relented at all, there's a giant puddle at the base of the steps which is slowly getting bigger. Dean storms through it, water filling his boots and splashing up his jeans.

"Dean!" Sam calls after him. "If you're going out, at least drop me at the library!"

"No freaking way!" Dean barks. He's soaked through already, hand paused on the Impala's door. "I need one goddamn hour to myself, okay?"

He gets inside, the leather seat squelching under his wet clothes. He sits a moment, both hands gripping the wheel. He can see the blurry shapes of his brothers standing on the porch, watching him. Maybe they think he's bluffing, that he'll get out and come back inside. No chance. Dean pushes the key into the ignition and reverses out of the drive.

Their house, if it can be called a house, seems like it was dropped in the middle of the forest, the drive is just a dusty track worn down over the years and the car bobs and jerks as she crawls backwards. The main road is smoother, and Dean can finally breathe. The feel of the engine and the rhythm of the windshield wipers sliding back and forth against the rain drains the tension from his shoulders.

He drives aimlessly for a few minutes before spotting a sign for a bar. He can get a beer, maybe hustle some pool, at least then he can go back home with some cash in hand. Then, Sam won't throw a fit about him taking off so suddenly.

Wait. Dean doesn't care about what Sam thinks. Sam's the master of running off, anyway. Dean could just say he's taking a leaf out of his book.

The bar is warm and dry, if a little clogged with cigarette smoke. Most of the occupants are big men who drive trucks for a living, taking a break from the endless roads. Dean takes a stool at the bar and orders a beer. No one asks him for ID, either he finally looks older than he is or they simply don't care. Dean grins into his glass and takes a drink.

* * *

"Do you think he's coming back?"

Sam glances up from his paper, it's covered in red marks from the countless edits he's made. Adam is curled into the corner of their couch, a couch way too small to fit all three of them, let alone Dad as well, if he were there, but Adam manages to make it look giant.

"He's coming back," Sam tells him. "He's not just gonna ditch us forever. He just... I don't know. Needs to cool off or something."

Adam nods and glances down at his knees. "Was it my fault? Did I upset him?"

Sam puts down his paper, adds it to his steadily growing stack of essays, and joins his little brother on the couch. "It's definitely not because of you," he says. "It was probably me."

"What did you do?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. I think he was in a bad mood already."

"Why?"

Sam snorts. Adam is constantly asking questions lately, growing more and more curious with each day. "I think he's worried about Dad," Sam admits.

"Me too," Adam mutters.

Sam thinks of his Dad. They'd argued before he'd left to go wherever it is he went. He would hate for that to be his last memory of him. Dad's never been much of an open book, but there was something about his secrecy this time that made Sam's hairs stand on end. Whatever he's doing, it's serious. More than just the regular ghost of werewolf. That's probably why Dean wasn't invited.

"Me too," Sam says. He glances out the window where the rain is beginning to thin. "If Dean's not back in a couple of hours, we'll go look for him."

* * *

The man across the pool table - Dean forgot his name, Steve or something? Who cares? - turns red as he slams his cash down. His brow is alarmingly creased with anger, his hand doesn't release the money.

"Pay up," Dean says, leaning on his pool cue. "We agreed, fifty bucks to the winner. I'm the winner."

He probably shouldn't grin at him like this, wide and toothy, but he doesn't deny revelling in the increasing redness of the man's face.

"You're punk ass little shit, aren't you?" he grunts, tossing the bills across the table with as little care as possible. Dean has to gather them up one-by-one, it's not like the guy had a single fifty dollar note in his pocket, he even had to scrounge some cash off his friends, who look almost as pissed as he does.

"So I've been told," Dean replies, shuffling his prize into a neat snack. This money could feed them well for a couple of weeks if he's smart about it, or he could take his brothers out for a real, cooked meal.

His opponent barges past, shouldering Dean none too gently, and heads for the bar.

"Good game," Dean calls after him, then turns to the crowd that had amassed while they'd played. "Anyone else wanna playg?"

"I will," comes an answer, "if you're ready to go another round."

Dean isn't sure how he missed her, tall and slim and curved in all the right places. She brushes her hand over the velvet pool table and smiles at him. Dean's struck dumb for a second because she's  _hot_ , like stop-in-your-tracks hot, and probably a few years too old for him. He puts on his most charming smile.

"For you, darling, definitely."

He's not sure how they end up in back room, they played for a couple of minutes before she excused herself to the bathroom, leaving with a lingering look in Dean's direction. The second he walked through the door, she'd grabbed him. He's pressed up against a shelf filled with bags of chips and pretzels, he can taste her lipgloss in his mouth, mint flavoured.

"I'd have said lips like yours are wasted on a guy," she says between kisses, "but you've proven me wrong."

Dean doesn't get a chance to reply because her lips are on his again, her hands gripping his hair hard enough to pull. It's all well and good, the two of them in the tiny storage room, the smell of peanuts and mint lipgloss, her leg riding up his thigh and the feel of her curved hips fit snuggly in his palms, then she's gone and he has half a second to register her shriek before he's hurtling into a stack are boxes.

He hears glass crack, feels the first twinges of bruises in the making. He scrambles to his feet and comes face-to-face with Steve.

"You little bastard!" he yells, spittle landing on Dean's cheek. "You cheat me out of my money  _and_ you make out with my girlfriend?"

Dean wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "Firstly, I won that money fair and square. Secondly, I didn't know she was your girlfriend, man."

Wrong answer, apparently, because Steve delivers a mighty punch to Dean's face. He stumbles and catches himself against the wall, his upper lip is warm and wet with blood. Sighing, Dean straightens up. Steve has his fists raised, ready for another round, but Dean blocks his second hit and aims a sharp kick to the back of his knee, knocking him to the ground.

"You got your hit in, okay?" Dean says. "I'm gonna get out of here and you'll talk with your girl about whatever's wrong in your relationship because, believe me, I'm not the problem."

He manages to get back out into the bar before he hears Steve grunting behind him, probably intending to sneak up on him unawares. Dean dodges his tackle and watches Steve tumble to the floor in an angry, red heap.

"Stevie, don't," the girlfriend says from behind. "Just leave it, okay?"

"Yeah, Stevie, don't," Dean agrees.

Steve gets to his feet and clenches his fist, but the impact that knocks Dean off his feet doesn't come from Steve's knuckles. One of Steve's friends hurls out of the watching crowd and tackles Dean to the ground. He hits the floor with a bruising  _thud,_  pinned beneath the weight of a man twice his size. He manages to free himself with a couple a swift elbows to the man's ribs.

Dean manages to get to his feet only to find Steve plus four more men blocking his exit. Dean's a good fighter, but even he can't take on six men, all way bigger than he is. He might be tall but some of these dudes are pure muscle. Dean's quickly trying to plot his escape, deciding on vaulting the bar and slipping out through the back, when the door opens.

Everyone turns to look. A kid, a very tall one, steps sheepishly into the bar. Sam scans the room and is quick to register Dean's situation. He raises an eyebrow at Dean, to which Dean replies with a shrug.

"Not that this wasn't fun," Dean says to Steve. "But I'd better be going."

He makes it a few steps but Steve steps in front of him, close enough that Dean can feel the guy's breath on his face. Sam slips in between them, quietly enough that Steve startles.

"Sir," Sam says, ever the polite young man. "I'm sure my brother has done something idiotic but I'd appreciate you letting him leave."

"Brother, huh?" Steve says, glancing between the two of them. "How old are you, kid?"

"Fifteen."

"Well, I'd appreciate you stepping aside, boy. I ain't nearly bruised this one up enough."

Sam's jaw sets in a way that worries Dean, this is Sam on a hunt, or before a major argument with Dad, or before a test for school. This is a Sam not to be messed with. He gives the man a small, sharp push that sends him back a step.

"Dean's only nineteen, you know," he says, voice stone cold. "What kind of man beats up teenagers? I suppose the same kind of man who hits his girlfriend."

Dean isn't sure if Sam's just pulling this out of his ass to get on the guy's nerves, or if he really knows something most others in the room don't. Dean casts a glance at Steve's girlfriend, regretting never asking her name, and watches her face pale. She casts her eyes downwards, her silence says it all.

One second Sam's in front of him, the next Steve grabs him and hurls him into the wall. Sam barely manages to bring his arm up to soften the blow, but the sound of impact makes Dean's stomach drop. Sam crumbles to the ground and presses a palm to his eye, face scrunched up with pain. Something in Dean snaps. He pictures shoving his fist down Steve's throat and yanking his lungs out through his mouth. He'll have to settle for beating the shit out of him instead.

One second, Steve is turning to Dean with a sneer on his face, the next he's groaning on the floor, hands clasped over his face, and Dean's knuckles are split and bloody. No one else bothers taking another shot at him, half the bar has turned their attention back to their drinks or conversations from before the fight. Dean pulls Sam up off the floor and they step outside.

The rain has stopped but the ground is soaked and overrun with puddles. The Impala is waiting patiently, shining wet and dripping, and leaning against the trunk is Adam. He blinks at them as they approach and asks, "What happened?"

Sam makes a disgruntled noise and says, "Some dickbag wouldn't leave Dean alone."

"You got in a fight?" Adam asks, suddenly awe-struck. "Who won? What started it? Did you hit 'em with a chair like in wrestling?"

He carries on asking questions as Dean unlocks the doors and they climb inside. On the road, he still hasn't shut up so Dean says, "I'll tell you all about it when we get home."

Adam looks ready to protest but relents and falls silent in the back seat.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Dean snorts. "Dude, I'm good."

"Your nose is bloody."

"It's nothing. How's your face?"

Sam removes his hand from his eye and peers into the rearview mirror, wincing. "Swollen," he replies, and shrugs, "but I've had worse."

They're quiet for a moment before Dean asks, "How'd you know about his girlfriend?"

Sam shrugs. "He looked like the type."

How terrible is it that a fifteen-year-old knows 'the type'? And how awful is it that a fifteen-year-old has had worse than a black eye from a bar fight? Dean can understand, maybe, why Sam has this dream of a higher education, or a higher  _anything_. He doesn't intend on seeing Sam go, but maybe he can indulge him this one time.

Entering town, Dean says, "We could stop at the library, if you want."

"We don't have to," Sam mutters.

"I want to go to the library!" Adam pipes up from the back.

Dean slows down, finding a parking space on the side of the road. He pulls fifty bucks out of his pocket and grins wide and bloody. "After, we can get dinner. It's on Steve."

Sam bursts out into the laughter, the first Dean's seen in a long, long time. He reckons the whole ordeal might have been worth it.


	5. 1999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hope no one forgot about this fic xoxo

 

Adam has to agree with Dean; witches suck.

Sam has never looked so pitiful, especially now that he finally earned that growth spurt he'd been waiting for, the one that stretched him out an extra foot so that he can stand nose-to-nose with Dean.

In all the years Adam has known his brothers, he doesn't think they've ever made him feel this afraid.

It's day two since Sam was hexed and things are only getting worse. Dad's gone, of course, off to find the witch that did this, except she doesn't exactly want to be found. Dean was left to make sure Sam doesn't run into a busy road or scare the neighbours into calling the cops, and Adam's been lingering on the edges, sweating through his palms with worry.

Sam, stupidly smart and level-headed Sam, is currently wedged between the two motel twin beds, knees hugging his chest, with his hands over his hears, flinching at the littlest sound.

His eyes are wide as saucers, gaze locked on a stained patch of carpet like it might come alive and try to eat him.

Dean takes a cautious step forward, and Sam melts further into the wall, if it's possible, and he stares up at Dean's face like it's the most horrifying thing he's ever seen. "I'm not gonna hurt you," Dean says, likely for the thousandth time today. "It's safe in here, remember? Nothing scary. There's just me and you and Adam."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against his knees, the whimpering sound he makes digs a well in Adam's gut.

Dean swears under his breath, he's been doing that a lot the past couple of days and Adam has learned a few new words. Adam watches Dean cross the room to where the sink stands beneath a window, and he plucks a glass from the counter and fills it will water. He crouches back down in front of Sam and softly calls his name.

Sam shakes his head jerkily, a hard refusal.

"Sammy," Dean tries again. "Wanna drink some water? I bet you're thirsty."

It's true. Sam has barely drunk anything since this mess started, he hasn't eaten even one bite of food, nor used the bathroom or slept. He refuses to budge, unless to find a more secure hiding spot. He's starting to look worse than most ghosts they hunt; his lips are dry and cracking, his eyes look bruised, and he's pale as paper.

Adam and Dean watch with breaths held as Sam peels one eye open cautiously. He stares at Dean, then to the glass of water that's being offered.

"Just try a sip," Dean encourages.

For a second, it seems like things might finally go their way as Sam unfolds a little from the corner, eyes all the way open now, but then he swipes the glass out of Dean's hand, sending the water splashing across the bed covers. He's much quicker than either would expect him to be, after two days without eating or sleeping. Quick as lighting, he barrels into Dean and knocks him back and into the cabinet at the end of the bed, then Sam hurtles across the room towards the door.

"Sam, no!" Dean yells, trying to get his feet back under him. Sam doesn't listen, he's too busy yanking clumsily on the chain lock. Adam hopes that Sam's brain is too scrambled to figure out how to unlock a door, he doesn't even seem to know who Dean and Adam are, but the chain jangles as it comes free and falls to knock against the wood. Sam pulls the door open, letting in the bright light of the motel's sign and the loud rush of cars on the road outside.

Adam's faster than Dean, who's looking wobbly on his feet, but he's not as fast as Sam. His fingers brush the back of Sam's t-shirt, then fall lamely through the air as Sam sprints ahead. Adam dashes after him, tails him for almost two blocks before his breath is knocked out of him and he has to stop to nurse the stitch that's taken up residence in his side.

He blinks under the streetlight, eyes watering, and stares helplessly down the dark road where Sam vanished.

"Where'd he go?" Dean's voice bellows from behind. He sprints up the path towards him, a gun in his hand.

"That way," Adam says, pointing down the street, eyes still locked on the gun. "What do you need that for?"

Dean ignores him, picking up into a run and darting after Sam. Adam heaves breaths in and out, hand clutching his side, as he watches the dark night swallow up his oldest brother too. He's half Dean's age now, and six years younger than Sam, how is Adam ever supposed to keep up with either of them?

He slides down to sit on the pavement, still waiting for his lungs to start pulling in air properly. He can picture Dad's face, can hear his voice saying, "You wouldn't be so tired if you'd put more effort into your training."

He crosses his legs, watches his shadow shift under the lamp light. He's sitting in the middle of a regular-looking street. Rows of houses with front yards and mailboxes. It looks a lot like what he remembers of the house he lived in with his mother a long time ago. Adam wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes.

He can almost feel her, if he focuses hard enough. She always had cold hands – it's a nurse thing, she used to tell him – and he would always shrug away when she wrapped her fingers around his. Now, he wishes he had let her hold his hand more often. He would have never let go if he'd known then what would happen.

His thoughts away turn from her cold hands and her warm smile and her feather-soft blond hair that used to tickle his face when she tucked him in at night, and he's suddenly thinking of blood spattered up their kitchen wall and her hand peaking out from behind the table. It was colder than usual when he'd touched, and when he'd scooted around to see closer –

Nothing. He doesn't remember much after that, but he remembers the feeling. The pure, trembling terror and the sickly curl of dread in his stomach.

Dad won't tell him exactly what happened, Adam doesn't think he wants to know.

He hears Dean and Sam coming back before he sees them, which is only fifteen or so minutes since they disappeared from his sight. Sam is shouting up a storm, yelling so loud that people in the next town can probably hear.

Sam cries, "He's trying to poison me! He's going to kill me!"

Beneath the volume of Sam's voice, Dean grunts, "Shut up!"

He comes staggering into view at the end of the street with Sam balanced over his shoulder. He comes to an abrupt stop when Sam knees him in the gut, still shrieking at the top of his lungs, but Dean grips tighter and carries on his slow way towards Adam.

"Help!" Sam yells, fists hammering against Dean's back. "Help me!"

Panicked, Adam glances around the deserted street. Curtains have parted in almost every house where neighbours decide to stick their nose where it doesn't belong. Adam sprints down the street to Dean, narrowly managing to dodge Sam's bare foot to his face.

"Someone might call the cops," Adam hisses to Dean.

"Someone probably already has," Dean replies, panting. "Got anything to keep him still?"

Adam unloops his belt from his jeans, which sends Sam off into another round of hysterics. Dean drops Sam back onto his feet, tackling him to the ground before he can make a run for it again.

"Quick," Dean says, glancing over his shoulder. Together, they pin Sam's hands behind his back and tie them together with Adam's belt. Then, Dean fishes an old bandana out of his back pocket and stuffs it in Sam's mouth to shut him up. He keeps yelling, but at least it's muffled.

Halfway back to the motel, he runs out of steam. Probably to Dean's relief, Sam has giving up with kicking, and instead settles for crying instead. They slip back into their motel room as fast as they can, double locking the door behind them.

Sam is deposited on the bed at the far side of the room. He sinks down onto the carpet and stays there curled up on his side, still bound and gagged.

"Pack up," Dean orders, tossing Adam a duffel bag.

Adam glances down at the bag's unzipped mouth and wishes it would swallow him up. Behind him, Sam whimpers. "Where are we going?" Adam asks.

"Not sure yet," Dean says, tossing clothes, clean and unclean, into another bag. "We'll just get out of dodge and try to call dad."

"If he picks up his phone," Adam mutters.

Dean doesn't reply, but Adam knows he heard him.

* * *

They drive across the state boarder with Sam whimpering and hidden in the footwell of the backseat. They have to stop in the middle of nowhere to clean up the car and change Sam's clothes – he had to pee at some point. It makes Adam feel sick to see Sam like that, meek as a kitten and pliable as Dean re-dresses him.

Adam thinks he preferred it when Sam was fighting them. Now, he's dead-eyed and empty, like no one's home at all. At least they can get him to drink something, even if it's just a few sips.

"What if Dad can't find the witch?" Adam asks. He's been thinking about this for the past day, too afraid to bring it up. He stares at Sam, slumped against the car on the side of the road, red-eyed and twitching.

"Dad'll find her," Dean replies. He sounds so sure, like Dad would walk into Hell if he had to.

"But if he doesn't," Adam presses. "What if Sam is stuck like this forever?"

Dean's face hardens and Adam tenses when he looks at him. Dean says, "Dad'll fix this," with so much certainty that there's barely any room for argument. Barely.

Dean might have unwavering faith in their father, but Adam knows better. If Dad couldn't save Adam's mom, or even Sam and Dean's mom, how can he save Sam? Adam thinks of Sam; small crease between his brows as he does homework, pen flying across paper. The way he pinches his lips together when he tries to avoid laughing at Dean's lame jokes. His bright white, open-mouthed grin when he can't help but laugh at Dean's lame jokes.

Adam looks down at the quivering boy on the ground and misses his big brother.

"They fed it to me," Sam whispers to no one, eyes wide. "Blood. Blood in my mouth. Blood, blood, blood, blood..."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean sighs.

Sam's voice is rising, above the rush of cars on the road beside them. Adam can see the frantic rise and fall of his chest, his feet curling beneath him, ready to run. Dean catches him before he can hurtle straight into the road. Sam wriggles, spitting and screaming, he sinks his teeth into Dean's arm but Dean only grips him tighter.

"Open the car door!" he yells, and Adam quickly does as he's told. Stuffing Sam into the backseat is like stuffing an angry cat into a carrier basket, legs flying out, Adam and Dean earning scratches. They slam the door shut and lock it. The two of them drop down to the ground, backs resting against the car, and they listen to Sam pound on the window.

Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket, speed dials their dad and waits with it pressed to his ear for a full minute before sighing and returning it to his jeans. "He's probably busy," Dean says, more to himself than to Adam. Adam watches Dean prod the bruise on his arm, the indents of Sam's teeth turning purple.

"It's been days, Dean, and Sam's not getting any better," Adam says, one hand gesturing to the boy in question, slumped against the window in the backseat. He tries again, "What if Dad can't fix this?"

Dean scoffs. "Of course, he'll fix this."

"But what if he doesn't?" Adam persists. "Then, what? Sam just stays like that for the rest of his life? He'd need be watched constantly, and do you really believe Dad would give up hunting to do that? He'd just dump Sam at a psych ward."

Dean is so quick that Adam doesn't notice him approach, next thing he knows Dean shoves him backwards and Adam lands on his ass, dust kicking up in a cloud around him.

Dean's face is like steel. "Don't say anything else like that, you hear?"

"I'm trying to be realistic!"

"Shut up, Adam. I won't tell you again."

Adam wants to say something more; Dean is becoming more and more like Dad with each passing day. He's totally blinded by hunting, by faith in their father. Adam doesn't know when exactly he started to see their father differently. One too many ratty motel rooms, one too many hunts. Like Sam, Adam is growing weary of it.

"I'm scared, Dean," Adam admits. "I want Sam back."

Dean stares down at him for a moment before offering a hand to pull him to his feet. "Me too," he says.

* * *

They find another motel, using the last of their cash for a single room and a few bags of chips and cans of soda from the vending machine. Sam's hysterics have withered down to unintelligible mutterings and darting eyes, tracking something in the room Dean and Adam can't see.

He won't drink anything. "I don't want it," he mumbles. "I don't… don't make me drink it. Please…"

Dean presses his palm to Sam's forehead. "He's burning up. Get some Tylenol from the bag, will you?" he says to Adam.

Adam does as he's told, dropping the bottle into Dean's hand. "How are you going to get him to take it?" he asks over Dean's shoulder.

Dean's answer is to pinch Sam's nose until his mouth gasps open, he uses his other hand to toss in a couple of pills and clamp Sam's jaw shut. Sam begins to kick, face turning red under Dean's hands. He shrieks at the back of his throat, loud enough that Adam hurries to the window to peer through the blinds. He can hear Dean's grunts and yelps as Sam's bare feet pummel him.

"Fucking  _swallow_  it," Dean grinds out.

Sam runs out of steam fast, limp under Dean like a part of the bed spread. Dean gently pries his lips open to inspect his mouth.

"There. Wasn't so hard, was it?" he says to Sam. Sam's eyes are red and wet, the only part of him which moves is the frantic rise and fall of his chest.

Dean gets to his feet, rubbing his reddening cheek where Sam managed to get a good hit, and grabs a soda. The hiss the soda can makes as Dean opens it makes Sam flinch.

"He never shuts up…" Sam says to no one in particular. "He won't get out of my head…"

Dean takes a long sip, eyes locked on his brother curled up on the bed. "Who won't shut up?" Dean asks.

Neither of them expects an answer. Sam has had plenty to say the past few days, just not to them.

"The devil," Sam replies. "He won't stop singing."

He presses his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut.

* * *

Adam didn't mean to fall asleep. He has stiff neck from sleeping propped against the wall, the pain of which only increases as Dean shakes him awake. The bedside light is on, the orange glow reflected in Dean's wide eyes.

"Dad called," he says urgently. "Says the witch is dead, but I don't know where Sam is!"

Any sleep still clinging to Adam is completely shed in that moment. Sure enough, the bed is empty, the sheets left in a heap and half-hanging from the mattress.

"Where did he go?" Adam asks, getting to his feet.

"I just said I don't know where he is!" Dean bites back. "Come on, we need to find him."

He's out the door before Adam can say anything else. The cool night breeze rushes into the room, along with the neon glow of the motel's sign. Adam grabs his knife from where it sits snugly in his boot and hurries outside. Dean has disappeared, all Adam sees is the sleepy motel clerk in his office and a couple of cars snoozing in the parking lot.

Adam checks the bed of a truck, then in the windows of cars, before rushing around the side of the building to where they'd used the vending machine earlier. Two vending machines hum brightly opposite a small laundry room. Adam turns on the light and checks everywhere; inside baskets and in the cleaning closet. Sam's way too big to fit in any of these places, but the simple act of looking makes Adam feel like he'd doing  _something_.

Defeat is making an unwelcome appearance and Adam turns out of the laundry room to head off to find Dean. He stops short in the doorway. In the dim corner beside one of the vending machines, he finds Sam, wedged as tightly as possible into the small space.

"Sam?" Adam says tentatively.

He gets no reply; Sam's blank stare is locked on a floor tile in front of his feet. Adam's stomach drops like a stone to the bottom of a river. Dad killed the witch… Sam was supposed to be fixed.

He treads forward carefully and crouches beside his brother. Sam jolts like Adam's made of electricity when he places a hand on his shoulder.

Sam swallows. "Adam," he says hoarsely. "Where are we?"

The trembling muscles in Adam's legs give out and he sinks all the way down to the floor. "Oh, thank God," he says, and throws his arms around Sam's neck. "Jesus, Sam, I thought you were gone for good."

When he lets go, Sam's arms are still wrapped around his middle. He's pale, shaky, frailer than Adam is used to.

Stupidly, Adam asks, "Are you ok?"

Sam gives him a small nod.

"What… what did you see?" This might be an even dumber question, but it's the first time Sam looks at him.

"I don't – " he begins, immediately cut off by a hacking cough. "I don't know, Adam. It was…"

He doesn't need to finish his sentence, the look on his face makes it clear how it was. Adam holds out his hands.

"Come on, let's go find Dean."

* * *

Dad comes speeding into the motel parking lot a couple of days later. Adam and his brothers had spent the time between Sam being Sam again and Dad coming home in relative silence. Sam struggled to do more than sleep fitfully and throw up what little food he was able to swallow. While Dean went to hustle pool to pay for another night, Adam was mostly alone with Sam and his vacant gaze.

Adam asked Sam if he was OK more that he should have. It was clear by the twitch in Sam's jaw that he was losing his patience with the constant worry. One afternoon he locked himself in the bathroom and didn't come back out for another two hours.

"He'll get better," Dean assured Adam, although he didn't sound very convinced by his own words.

The second Dad comes through the door on their third evening in that room, he goes straight for Sam. Sam backs up into the headboard like Dad is going to take a swing at him, but instead he's yanked into his arms, Dad's stubbled cheek pressed to the crown of Sam's head.

"Thank, God," Dad mutters. "Oh, God, Sammy."

He orders pizza that night and rents some dumb blockbuster action movie on video for Sam to ignore while Dean mouths the lines along with the characters. At some point in the middle, while Dean cheers at the screen as something burst into exaggerated flames, Dad says he has to get something he'd left in the car.

Sam's asleep, buried under the covers, and Dean's busy taking as big a bite of pizza as he possibly can. Adam had no problem slipping out into the parking lot after his father.

John paces behind his truck, cell phone pressed to his ear, his hushed voice barely audible under the rush of cars on the road.

Adam crouches in the shadows and inches closer, hidden behind the wheel of a rusty pickup.

" – yeah, like you said, spell died with the witch," John says, "but, Bobby, that's not what's worrying me… no it wasn't an insanity spell or whatever the fuck you called it…  _Bobby_ …" John smacks the hood of his truck, "she told me, right before I put a bullet in her head. The spell was to show him his future."

Adam stops breathing. His father's words echoing in his head. Sam's future.

"Whatever Sam saw, it drove him mad, Bobby… No, he's doing better now… well, better than before. Jesus, Bobby, I've haven't seen a look like that in someone's eye since Vietnam… Yeah, I was thinking about bringing the boy's up to yours for a little while, they could use a break… Look, Sam says he doesn't remember much about what he saw and Dean and Adam don't know what the spell really was…"

Adam's fists clench in his shirt. He knows what the next thing to come out of John's mouth is.  _Don't tell the boys_.

"Bobby, I'll call you back later, the boys need me right now." Adam hears the click of his Dad's phone snapping shut, then the crunch of his boots on the gravel. He waits until the motel room door closes behind him before heading to the vending machine to get a soda.

Back in the room, Dean is still enraptured with the film, Sam is still passed out under the covers, and Dad sits in the corner at the desk, scribbling something down in his journal. He's the only one who looks up when Adam comes in.

"Where've you been?" he asks.

Adam holds up his can of soda in place of an answer and takes his seat beside Dean at the foot of the bed. The can is cold in his hands, growing warmer and warmer as the night goes on. He never opens it, couldn't stomach a single swallow.

Sam turns in his sleep and Adam's head his filled with his voice saying, "The Devil. He won't stop singing."


End file.
